


On the Way to a Smile

by mako_lies (wingeddserpent)



Series: The Ruin [5]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Cor finds Prompto fic, Established Relationship, Gen, M/M, POV First Person, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Canon, but not Dad!Cor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-24
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-06 10:56:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12816030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wingeddserpent/pseuds/mako_lies
Summary: Cor knows from the start he cannot play at parent for the rescued child, even if he's starting to wish otherwise.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fill for [this prompt](https://ffxv-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/4113.html?thread=7003153#cmt7003153) on the kinkmeme. I'm cleaning it up and posting it here. I'd recommend reading this version rather than the other, given that this is the final version. ;)
> 
> This work contains allusions to depression/PTSD, mentions of past canonical experimentation on children, and a little body horror. Also temporary off-screen character death. 
> 
> Main pairing is Cor/Clarus, with offscreen Clarus/his wife. Everyone involved in the relationship is aware of it.
> 
> Title lifted from the FFVII novella.

The Orphanage takes the babe and his fabricated papers without question all for the low, low price of 300,000 credits. A small price, to see him well-cared for. All such establishments in Insomnia are filled to bursting these days. Have been for years. I was lucky to find one that didn’t look too closely at the documents, which cost far more than the bribe to have him accepted here.

With any luck, the boy will be adopted before I return.

Gralean-refugee doctors I paid as much for silence as care maintain there will be no lasting effects of whatever happened to him that made him so small and so silent and so scared. Given that I never saw the inside of the labs I assume he came from, I had nothing to offer in explanation. Still, that no surprise colored their features was telling. When questioned, they said naught but, “It happens.” Another reason to end this War.

I had intended to break into Gralea’s labs. Those shadowy, secret labs that Intelligence believed housed the MT project. It had been our first opening  _ever_ , one I had chanced upon while monitoring the defenses of their capitol—but before I could find a way inside, a harried-looking woman with dark circles under her eyes, a sallow complexion, and ill-fitting researcher’s garb had approached my hiding place. In Niff-accented Accordian, she’d said, “Take It. Please, please get It out of here. Before they find It’s missing.” And she had shoved a bundle at me before I could restrain her. Shocked that a civilian could have found me so easily, I looked down at the cocoon of blankets in my arms.

 _It_  had turned out to be a human child.

The researcher had disappeared before I could get ahold of her. I stared at the child, then glanced up at the Labs.

Given the choice between one child and the answer to the question that might end the War, I never once considered that I would make the wrong choice.

Yet here we are.

The boy’s peers up at me with watery blue eyes. I hand him to the man. He hasn’t cried once since I acquired him, even as we dodged sniper fire on the border. He doesn’t cry, but his eyes are wet while I prepare to depart. We have spent every waking hour together for months now. He probably understands little of what has happened or is happening now.

I smooth out that tuft of blond one last time. My hand is trembling like an unblooded youth’s. “Please call me if something happens.”

“You’re sure you want to give him up?” asks the worn man dutifully, holding the credit chip and the child with equal care. Can’t blame him, given the number of unwanted children in this city and the scarcity of currency.

 _Give him up_. It  pricks into me like cactuar needles. He isn’t mine to give up. I just happened to save him from Gralea. Though we’ve traveled two months together, I’ve no claim on him.

I swallow, surprised at the sudden tightness in my throat. The child stares at me without crying. It’s to him I say:

“Yes. It must be this way.”

 

My return to Insomnia a month later is utterly without fanfare: The King is grayer. The Prince is fussier. The Shield is balder.

I stop by my apartment for a change of clothes before I make for the Citadel. My paperwork won’t fill itself out. I’ll sleep when I’m dead, as the saying goes.

Hours pass under the cheery Citadel lights as I seek the words to explain the defenses erected in the last month. Without explaining the reason for the sudden increase in security. The Crown can’t know what I have paid, and not simply for my pride, great though it may be.

Were I to tell them about the child, he would replace Gralea’s labs for Insomnia’s. They would test and test to seek the answer to the question I once sought. The Crown cannot know why the borders have tightened. The knowledge held in those Labs is so vital that Gralea would spend much to protect it.

I wasted our shot on sentiment.

The kid had looked up at me with those bright blue eyes. His expression had been twisted with something like resignation, until he had sighted the vast expanse of sky behind me and his mouth had dropped open in wonder—as if he had never seen it before. I couldn’t toss him away, even if I didn’t know the woman’s intentions.

I had clutched him tight to my chest and run.

Back in Insomnia, I cannot even tell the King of my failure. Perhaps the Insomnian scientists would have a gentler touch, but with the historic and current public sentiment against all things Niff—no. I can’t risk it. Better he be safe and secret, than public and used.

I have to believe we’re better than the Niffs, or what am I fighting for? What have I been fighting for these long years? (I’m cynical enough to not want the truth. As ever, I’ll close my eyes and never put myself in a position to test whether we are, in fact, better than the enemy.)

My pen stalls on the page, and I scrub at my drooping eyes. A bed sounds heavenly, but I know whose face will await me—No. Not yet. I can’t sleep yet. Not until I’m too tired for my subconscious to return me to the Crag.

“Cor?” Just the voice I wanted to hear. I resist the petty urge to put my head on the table as Clarus approaches. His voice is sharp as it ever is when he finds me at my desk this late. “I had to learn from the guards that you’d returned.”

My chest aches, that sharp rememory pain of the sniper shot. I should have called him, but I couldn’t risk someone seeing me before I’d changed clothes. I’d snuck into my apartment for my extra Crownsguard blacks, hoping against hope that no one at the Gates had noticed me.

Someone would have questioned how shredded my clothes were, while I myself stood tall and unharmed.

Sneaking through the defenses at the Tenebraen border had proven too difficult. Too many MTs and magitek armor for me to cut through without being felled myself. The third time I had risen from a tacky pool of my own blood, I’d been forced to retreat.

No other choice, even as I realized through the haze of pain that saving the boy had cost all hope of destroying the MT facility.

I trudged through the long abandoned Front and my chest itched. Shiny pink scar tissue stretched across my chest where the sniper’s round had burst my ribcage like some over-ripe fruit. The scar tightened as it shrank. Healing even as I marched my exhausted body. By time I found a freight train to hide on, I was hale again.

I blink out of the memory. Shit. Quiet too long. Clarus stares me down. “I wanted to finish this while it was still fresh,” I tell him, gesturing at my paperwork.

“Come to bed,” he suggests, his voice gentle as Duscae rain.

I almost relax. He’s a good commander. His voice is enough to set me at ease, and not simply because I’m bedding him. Yet, there are practicalities to attend. “And Gladiolus? He’s old enough to question my coming and going.”

“He’ll understand. Gladio is a sensitive kid. He knows I was worried.”

A little young, to learn the fears of War. But then, that comes part and parcel to growing up these days, even protected in Insomnia. He’s an Amicitia, too. He’ll live the War more than most. A shame, that. But the little Prince must have a Shield.

“Grace will return for his birthday, won’t she?” His mother, for all she typically stays in her beloved Altissia, usually endeavors to visit on holidays and birthdays, or when there’s a state function she must attend in this city she despises so. 

“Yes,” Clarus pauses. He frowns thoughtfully at the ceiling, the way he does when he doesn’t want to admit something. “We’re entering talks about having another child. The marriage contract only specified one, and she is not… overfond of children, you know. But I believe I’d like another.” Of course he does. Clarus loves children more than anyone else I know.

In a perfect world, not only would Clarus stay home all day to care for his plethora of bright children, but he would have taken the tiny one I found, too. Perhaps we could have raised the boy together.

It’s a defeatingly futile thought.

“Go home, Clarus,” I tell him, and the exhaustion twists my tone into something sour. “I’ll warm your bed another night.”

Shield to my Sword: if the barb stings, he brushes it off like a shield brushing off the cut of an ill-aimed blade. “If that’s your wish. But I insist you warm  _a_  bed, even if it’s not mine.”

I nod. Might be he’s right. He is more often than I care admit.

Clarus brushes his lips over my forehead in a gesture soft enough my chest burns again. Precision of a sniper, this man, every time. He always knows exactly how to gut me with his love. A promise of everything I want, that I cannot have. And I, foolish enough to lap it up every time.

I stand with enough force the chair topples. He catches it. “Cor—“

“Apologies. I’ll go back to my apartment. Another night? Before you have to start baby-making.” I don’t even mean to be an ass, but I am anyway. It’s been a long few months.

But tonight I’m lucky: Clarus lets me go.

 

I begin in the direction of my apartment. Usually I stay in my quarters in the Citadel and let my apartment moulder. Sleep. Work. Eat. Repeat. But I hit the everbright streets tonight.

I’m in front of the Orphanage before I make any conscious decision to go. I sit behind the wheel, breathing ragged like I’ve just faced a dozen MTs. The Orphanage hasn’t called, but I have to see. As though seeing him will reduce the molten guilt-sludge in my gut.

If he’s happy and safe, would my blunder be worth it? No. How much blood, Lucian and otherwise, will be spilled in his stead?

It’s easy enough to break in to the Orphanage. I’ve had practice, and their locks are old. Apart from children no one would miss, which are a cheap enough currency these days, what have they to steal?

I creep through the house as I would any enemy base.

He’s awake. Blinking up at the ceiling vacantly. Endless blue eyes. I swallow again and again to clear my throat. Then he sights me—and his face twists and twists and twists—

I think he’s going to finally cry and give away my position. I tense. But he keeps at it and keeps at it, watching me for—what, validation? Kids need that, right? And I realize he’s trying to  _smile_. He  attempts to turn his lips up and up, but his facial muscles haven’t been properly trained yet.

Oh.  _Oh_. He probably never  saw anyone smile in the Labs. I had made a point to smile at him on our way back to Insomnia. Reassuring him as much I could. Those first few nights in the bright, overwhelming city he stayed in my apartment. We slept out on a blanket on the floor, him cuddled up into my chest. We’d waited for his papers to be forged, and I’d spent the days and nights talking to him and smiling. Explaining the new world he’d arrived into. I doubted he understood even as I spoke myself hoarse, but I hope it made him feel better. Now that I think on it, his face had twisted and twisted sometimes. I hadn’t paid it much mind then.

My breath rattles in my chest. I cross to his cradle and smile at the boy. Smile as wide as I can, as best as I can. I’ve had precious little reason to smile for so long now—and he has been my main reason to for months now.

Astrals, I couldn’t abandon him there. I can’t even feign regret now that we are reunited.

Kid gurgles, and he stretches his thin fingers up for me. I know a trap when I see one, but I fall for it anyway. A happier-sounding gurgle when I pick him up. I cradle him against my chest.He fists my new shirt with a surprisingly strong grip.

Does he remember me? How could he? He’s so young, and I’ve been gone a month already. When do kids start to remember things, anyway?

He drifts off in my arms. Does he have difficulty sleeping? Has my presence here somehow soothed him? Gently, I lay him back in the crib. He doesn’t wake, but it turns out I underestimated the staff here. Guess it’s like how Clarus’s hearing got exponentially better after Gladio was born. He can hear me curse from three rooms away if Gladio is the house. It’s ridiculous.

The man from before leans in the doorway with narrowed eyes. Shit this looks bad. “Door was unlocked.”

“Sure it was,” the man humors me, eyes crinkling in the corners with a smile. “We found him a name. Prompto. Cute, huh?”

I grunt. Prompto. Good name. Hopefully he’ll grow into it. The man seems unperturbed by my silence. He asks, “Coffee?”

I shouldn’t. I promised Clarus I would sleep. But I follow him to the kitchen anyway, and sip the tepid sludge he pours me. It’s bitter and exactly what I want but don’t need. I’m not big on caffeine.

Used to make me jittery. Don’t drink enough of it to see if it still holds true or not.

“I’m Lance, by the way,” he offers over his own mug. “He’s a fighter, isn’t he? I think a lot of this is all totally new for him, y’know, but he’s trying to understand. Missed a lot of developmental milestones.”

I paid these people for silence, and I don’t feel guilty offering it now. The man’s clumsily fishing for information I can’t give my king or my lover. I shrug. Lance sighs. Then, softly, “He’s luckier than most, though. To have someone who obviously cares about him. You’re sure—“

“I can’t.”

It comes more harshly than I intend, but maybe it gets the message across. There are so many reasons I can’t, even if I could—

 _I could teach him to smile_.

No. I don’t even like kids. Gladiolus is about all the kid I can handle, and even that is trying. And the Prince is too much, for all that I’ve sworn to protect him. “I can’t,” I repeat. “Are his chances of being adopted… good? Be honest.”

“Well, he’s a baby who doesn’t cry. So that’s… a selling point. I guess? The development issues will be a little trickier, but most people expect war orphans to be a little… different. Even the blond hair probably won’t turn everyone away. So—yeah. His chances are good, I’d say. Until then, you’re welcome to visit.”

Visit. So casually. “I can’t. I just wanted to make sure he was adjusting. Thank you.” I put my empty mug on the counter.

Time to go. “Farewell,” I say, and retreat.

 

Coffee or no, I sleep like a babe myself the moment I hit my bed. I wake when it’s dark again. As dark as Insomnia gets, anyway.

My head pounds, and somehow the silence of my apartment makes it worse. Hyperaware of my own breathing, of every creak of this old place. Despite my lack of dreams, my chest aches, and I half wish that I’d taken Clarus up on his offer, just to have a distraction now. Never do well when I have too much time to think.

Last night, I fell into bed fully clothed. I peel off my shirt. I can’t stop myself from staring at my unmarred skin. No scars, no bruises, nothing. I trace over the smooth skin. Is it something I’ll get used to? It’s been over a decade since the Trial, but it’s still novel, every time that I stand up, will it ever—

Don’t dwell on things that can’t be changed.

I force myself from bed by habit. Despite the hour, there will be no more sleep for me. Shit, I probably don’t even need it. People die without sleep, but I am not among those who can perish.

I drag myself to the kitchen.I eat and drink at my small dining room table. Cup Noodles and chamomile tea, but it’s better than rations. Anything is better than rations.

My apartment is nicer than most in the city. Larger. Three bedrooms, one for guests that I never entertain, another I use as a combination study/gym. Full kitchen. Bath and a half. Nice, matching furniture I let Jared and Clarus choose for me when I couldn’t be bothered. They chose earthy, comfortable things. I spend more nights crashed out on the couch than the bed. On days I bother to come back here at all.

 _It would be easy_   _enough_   _to convert the_ _dusty spare bedroom_ _into a nursery._

I go still, chopsticks halfway to my mouth. It’s true enough, I suppose. The kid would fit well into the physical space of my life. I have plenty of room. Plenty of gil only used for charity and weapons. I could afford to send him to the fancy noble schools that Noctis and Gladio will soon attend. The kid seemed to like it here while we waited for the test results. Even though I didn’t let him sleep in a bed because I was worried about him smothering himself on accident or falling off. He fits in here just fine.

He’d be provided for.

(I can’t shake it, that tiny twist in his brows as he’d tried to learn my smile. The fantasy of raising him. Of caring for him as he obviously needs to be cared for.)

But money isn’t the problem, not the way it is for so many in the city.

I’m gone constantly, to whatever remains of a Front in the front of this War. Regis and Clarus would ask too many questions. He might end up in the Labs. I’m not equipped to be a caregiver the way a child would need.

All of them sting of base excuse, but I cannot—No. It’s simply enough that I cannot take the boy in. Even if I play that I might like to, it could never happen. Growing up in a facility like the one I gave him to—I know. I know that life without parents is difficult, but it can be worse to have the wrong parents. The kids who’d show up covered with bruises, flinching and spitting and angry.

I’d never known my parents, but I’d also never known what it was like to be betrayed or disappointed by the people who were supposed to protect me.

It isn’t as though the choice is between myself and the Orphanage. Someone will choose him. Someone who will inevitably be a better choice than myself.

I finish my cold noodles and barely clean what mess I’ve made of the kitchen before I nab my keys.


	2. Chapter 2

The Citadel is almost empty this time of night. Crownsguard at the doors half-glance at my ID. Given I train most people who come through these days, I’m a common enough sight. It still chafes they’re not more vigilant. I’ll have to put them through their paces. Some kind of test. If I can break through our defenses undetected, so can the enemy.

My office is beside the training grounds.

Clarus and Regis had wanted me to moulder in the administrative section of the Citadel,. For sentiment’s sake, they wanted to keep me within arm’s reach. To protect me as they always seemed to think I needed.

I’d refused to be moved away from my Crownsguard. 

If they’re expected to die for Crown and Country, the least I can do is oversee their training personally. Be near enough to know that I am no paper-pusher throwing their lives away for personal glory.

I settle at the sturdy old desk, the one I’d carried from the old Marshall’s office to a spare armory. I’d claimed the armory for myself. I could take the old Marshall’s desk for tradition, but I could never take his place. I perch on the carved wooden chair and groan. It never gets more comfortable, filling his seat.

I pick up my failed report. 

Another stack of paperwork is waiting, but—

Can’t think on it now. That stack is worse, by far, than lying by omission on my own paperwork. It can’t be put off anymore. It’s my job, and if I wait any longer, then it will become Clarus’s. I can’t dump it on his lap. So as quickly as I can, I finish my report: 

Tightened security. Unsure of reason. Impossible to breach new defenses without new intel. Increase in MT activity outside of the Empire. Potential for stronger types of MTs outside of the Empire. Unsure of implications.

Easy enough to strip it of the reality of being shot through the chest by a sniper. Strip it of the babe and the woman who gifted him to me. I write around the necessary parts and give only the information that will benefit the War Effort.

I’m an old hand at this. Have to be, even if the taste it leaves in my mouth is reminiscent of that black sludge an MT leaves behind. Never purposefully got it in my mouth before. But you don’t do the type of intimate fighting I do without tasting the fruits of your labor, as it were. Reap the seeds we sow, etc.

When I finish, I stretch. The chair wasn’t designed for comfort, but neither was the role of Marshall. For all that I tease Regis about mine being a ceremonial role, I spend most of my time elbows deep in logistics for a War most barely believe exist.

I move on to the notices to families. While I was on my own doomed mission, one of my strike teams fell in the outlands. Maybe a week ago. Skirmish with MTs that turned bloody when they brought in magitek armor. Seems like every time we turn around, the Empire is developing new ways to massacre us. 

These notices shouldn’t have sat on my desk this long. My temples throb as I pull out the nice pen from its case. I thought it’d been an unnecessary extravagance when Clarus bought it for me:

Congratulations on becoming the youngest Marshall in history: here’s your shiny pen.

“Being Marshall means that sometimes, your pen is going to be mightier than your sword, Cor,” Clarus had said, looking nearly as old as Regis. “Can’t have a disposable sword.”

I know now it wasn’t intended for me, but comfort for the families. If I’m whipping out this pen, it means I’m penning letters to a family. They deserve something better than cheap ballpoint.

Not quite going through the motions. Too personal for that. I trained them. Saw them when they came in. When they got their blacks. When they got their first assignment. Just wasn’t here when they got their last one.

I’ve written enough of these over the years I don’t have to deliberate what to write or how to write it. The only deliberation is why the hell I’m here—solid, whole, after so many should-have-been deaths—why the hell I’m the Immortal, when so many good people under and above me have died. How many more will.

Lucky me. I have surgeon’s hands. Could have gone into medicine if I wasn’t so intent on killing. Even Clarus used to be impressed by the steadiness of my hands.

(Now, it’s more how much of my hand can fit in him, but the thought has no business here. Later, maybe.)

It’s only because of that inherent steadiness my hands aren’t shaking when I finish sealing the last letter. Are their deaths on my head? For the tightened security? For the backlash? For the fact I saved Prompto rather than find the secret of the MTs?

Shit. Shit. Shit. I press my steady hands to my eyes and don’t cry. Shit shit. How many future deaths will be attributed to—

No. I stand from my chair. Time for training. No more of this. No more questioning. No more feeling sorry for myself. Past is past. Time to attend the present.

 

I spend the rest of the day in the training grounds. Teaching. Sparring. Practicing while the greenest pretend not to watch. Hours pass and sweat slicks my skin, my lungs raw and aching. It’s a good feeling until I notice Regis watching me from the doorway. I should have been more vigilant. I didn’t notice him come in. Maybe I’m losing my edge. Maybe Immortality has made me sloppy.

He isn’t uncommon here. Still has to keep in fighting shape and has a vested interest in the men fighting the War with him.

On good days, I can convince him to help me train them. But today his face is grayer than it ought be, and with barely maintained regality, he leans against the wall. Clarus keeps telling him to spend more time off the knee or it’s going to further deteriorate. Regis has his pride, as we all must. Perhaps he must have more than most. As monarch. I dismiss my katana. “Your Majesty.”

His eyes crinkle in a smile, wrinkles writ like fine spiderweb across his face. “How long has it been? No need to stand on formality.”

I relax, or put effort into it. “Did you receive my report?”

“Yes. Thank you. I had wondered—well. It’s being looked into. In the meantime, it’s for the best you and the rest of the Guard remain in Insomnia. While we decide the best path forward.”

A perfect opening to tell him what I can’t but should. I bite my tongue. The rest of the Guard pretends not to watch as Regis reels me in for a hug. I’m not much one for casual displays of affection—but Regis is. When he permits himself, I permit him. Astrals know, he allows himself so little. I wrap my arms around him and try not to startle at how thin he feels. The Ring—that damned ring, wearing away at Kings until they are naught but dust. “When we began getting reports about the increase in activity, we worried for you,” he murmurs. 

He needn’t have. But it would sound empty without telling him why, so I hold my tongue. We are at War—were I anyone else, he would have cause to worry. For all that I am Immortal by reputation, to most it is only that—reputation. Regis releases me reluctantly, and I fail to notice when he wavers without my support. “I’m well enough.”

“You look tired,” he tells me without irony.

The Sleepless King, telling off the Immortal for not performing a function he technically need not perform. “I need to catch up on work. I’m starting to think I’m actually a Secretary,” it’s meant to be teasing, but the wrinkles around his eyes deepen as though it was an accusation. I sigh. “We all have our roles to play.”

His mouth twists downward. I always cut where I intend comfort.Yet another reason why I could never be a parent.

But Regis is graceful in all things, as I only am on the battlefield. “That we do. I shouldn’t keep you. I simply wished to remind you that you were missed.”

My throat tightens. “Thank you.”

He smiles at me before he goes. Perhaps I return it. The guilt claws at me. Never did like lying. I resume training, and if my recruits notice my renewed fervor, they’re smart enough to keep their eyes peeled and their mouths closed.

 

I leave just as the sun goes down, and the city lights are almost blinding. The daemon scares from a decade past are fresh enough in the collective memory that people stay scared. Another reason Insomnia is a sleepless city. 

My intention is to go to my apartment.

Yet I find myself outside the Orphanage again. The locked door deters me as much as it did my last visit. This time, Lance is sitting with one of the other toddlers on a ragged couch. He smiles when he sees me. “I just put Prompto down. Might still be awake, poor little guy. Just try not to wake the others, yeah?”

I’m setting a precedent here. A routine. I know it, and still I climb the stairs. The room has four worn cribs in it. One is empty. 

Prompto is awake. Blue eyes almost glowing in the dark. He gurgles when he sees me and holds up his hands. Already, he’s put on weight. A curve of baby fat in his cheeks that hadn’t been there before. It’s a good look, a healthier look, where he had been all sharp angles.

I accept his invitation and take him into my arms. Prompto sighs, resting his head against my shoulder. Like a parent from one of those sitcoms Clarus doesn’t admit he likes, I sway side to side. It’s almost like dancing, which I only learned because sometimes I couldn’t get out of being moral support for Regis at state functions. But this is nicer. No shifty politicians. No backroom deals designed to shaft the poor and vulnerable. No exhausted Regis looking like he’d done a bout in one of those underground boxing rings.

Prompto makes soft sound, content maybe?, and I clutch him tighter. The chubby toddler across the room whimpers in their sleep. I frown, then murmur into Prompto’s hair, “Let’s go downstairs.”

Predictably, I get no response. Lance seems unsurprised to see us and smiles. He’s an attractive young man. Maybe late twenties. Russet skin. His eyes are deep brown, thoughtful, and I get the sense he spends a great deal of his time listening to the children. It’s probably a good trait for someone in his position. Dangerous and useful, if he were a spy. His smile is disarming: friendly and honest.

I sit cross-legged on the floor with Prompto in my lap. He can sit by himself. I don’t know if that’s unusual or not, but I comb through his downy hair. “Settling in?” I ask Prompto.

He looks at me with such clarity. I can’t shake the feeling he understands everything, as unlikely as that is. Maybe if I could speak Niff? Maybe I should learn some? It might make communicating with him easier—

No. Pointless exercise.

Prompto’s mouth tilts up slightly, brows furrowed in concentration. I bark out a laugh. The world’s most thoughtful smile.

In my lap, Prompto startles at the sound, and I keep laughing, though softer so as to not wake the other children. He smiles again, this time a little more naturally, and I pet him in encouragement. He’s making progress. He’s _healing_. Healing from whatever left him thin and scared. Whatever left IV track marks in his arms. I glance over at  Lance to find he’s still smiling at us.

I know what he’s thinking. It’s obvious. But I turn back to Prompto as the boy lifts his arms to be held again. I pull him up against my chest. He rests his head on my shoulder,  breath evening out.

Kid’s asleep before I can even think about getting him back to bed.

I sigh, but try not to jostle him. I’ll give him a few minutes before I disrupt him. Least I can do. My chest feels tight. The boy smells soft, comforting, like baby powder. I shouldn’t be doing this, but I never did learn not to tempt fate. As ever, I’ll take my licks when and where they come.

“There’s no shame in wanting a child,” Lance offers, “Often there’s no right time to have one.”

Perhaps more than being kind to children, someone in his position must be a good salesperson. He’s certainly making the pitch. I rub Prompto’s back. I can still feel every knot of his spine. He needs more fattening up. “I can’t,” I tell Lance yet again. I’m no father. The closest I’ll ever achieve is training the Crownsguard. I’m crazy for even entertaining the idea of wanting anything else. I know that. “I’m just making sure he’s taken care of. He had a hard time of it.”

The man hums but says no more. I hope that’s the last of it. I can say no indefinitely, of course. There’s no risk of me taking leave of my senses enough to take the boy in. There can’t be. We sit in companionable silence. Time slides past, and every minute, I tell myself to get up and put the boy to bed. But his warmth is comforting. Solid. And I stay.

The clock hits ten—surely I haven’t been here so long?—and I’m preparing to stand when Prompto squirms in my arms. I glance down. His eyes are scrunched shut, face all twisted up. My stomach jolts.

I _know_ this.

He wriggles, then his eyes snap open as he _wails_ —the first time I’ve heard him cry. As though he’s never heard himself make such a sound, he startles in my arms, and then the tears start flowing like one of Altissia’s waterways. He sobs, whole body heaving as he cries, and I stare down at him. My mouth opens and nothing comes out.

_Useless_. I have to  pull together.

“Prompto. You’re safe,” I try with my sandpaper voice. “It’s all right.” What is it that Clarus tells me? “You’re home. There’s no one else here. You and me, Prompto. You don’t have to be frightened.” I keep my voice as gentle as possible while I card fingers through his hair.

I stand and try the rocking thing again. Lance approaches us. “I can take him,” he says, hands outstretched, but I shake my head even before he finishes. He nods, then takes the other child upstairs.

Over and over, I repeat Prompto’s name and that he’s safe, and I rock him until even I feel tired. At some point, Lance returns. He watches us. I barely pay him any mind. Prompto cries silently, tear flowing down his red face. After that first yell of agony, he’s been silent. “This is the first time he’s cried since you brought him,” Lance tells me. “He must feel safe with you.”

I grunt and rub Prompto’s back. I’m not sure how long it takes—it feels like eternity, like the length from here to the battlefield—before he exhausts himself, tiny body sagging against me. He whimpers. “It’s all right. You’re all right. You’re safe,” I say, and he clings tighter.

In moments, he’s asleep. Again I hesitate in taking him upstairs. Lance whispers, “We have a pillow, a blanket, and a small futon for things like this. You can sleep in the toddler’s room tonight. If it’ll put your mind at ease.”

I should refuse. I _know_ I should refuse, but I nod. Can’t stand the thought of leaving him.  All those nights Clarus has stayed with me. I couldn’t imagine leaving the boy now when he needs me. I know what it’s like, to be alone with that inner darkness.

In a span of minutes, Prompto is settled in his crib. With my steady steady hands, I don’twake him. The futon’s ready when I finish. Lance smiles again. “I’ll be in the room next door. I’ve got the monitor, so if any of the others start crying, you can sit tight.”

Good. One is too much.

I wait for him to leave before I stretch out fully clothed on the futon. I close my eyes, but sleep never comes, and I listen to the tiny bodies around me breathing.

Twice, other kids wake, and Lance comes. But Prompto sleeps the whole night through, and when dawn comes, I fold the blanket and the futon, and leave without saying goodbye to anyone. Prompto’s still sleeping.

 

I don’t go home. I drive to work. Flash my ID. Enter the office. Fill out the paperwork I didn’t finish yesterday—nothing important, just documents needing my seal. I’m first at the training ground. I spend the morning perfecting a new move with my katana. Can’t get the footwork right.

Frustrated, I go to get some water. One of the new recruits—Hedy—sees my face and pales. “Good morning, sir. Are you—quite well?”

I scowl. “Fine. Get to work. I saw your stamina training yesterday. It was lackluster, to say the least. I expect better today.” Sharper than I intend, but she leaves. I wipe my sweat off with a towel.

As others arrive, I shift from my own training to theirs. Stretches. Pair stretches. Laps. Self-defense drills. Self-defense partner work. The third time I have them practicing partner throws, I notice Clarus enter the training ground. I frown. It isn’t Wednesday. Wednesday is the day he brings in Gladio to watch us practice. It’s not Friday, either, when father and son study the blade.

Clarus usually uses a private room if he’s training without his son.

My trainees eye me for instruction now. Shit. Distracted too long. Should have slept last night. But sleep is optional. What can’t kill you, and all that.

I call out for them to switch partners and try again, then cross to Clarus. Sharp-eyed, he watches me. His mouth pinches at the corners. Great. He’s not thrilled with me. I don’t find I care. Defensive, I cross my arms. “Have a problem with my training, Shield?” I demand, unflinching.

Clarus’s expression tightens. The way it does whenever I bring up station. Still, he’s not as touchy about it as Regis is. Commoner, nobility, royalty. Foolish to forget power and fealty, but they expect me to in the way all those with power expect others to ignore their privilege. I don’t stand on ceremony, but I know where I stand. “Our King is coming to teach them magick. I’ve taken the rest of the day off and you’re coming with me.”

As if on cue, His Majesty appears. I bite my cheek. I’m not being undermined, but it damn well feels like it. “And we’re going where?”

“My place.”

There it is. A pang. I suppose I have been neglecting him since I returned—three days ago? Two?—and I can’t give him sufficient reason for my shame. It tends to happen more than I’d care admit. For all that we share purpose, since King Mors died we’ve been occupying separate spheres. He’s turned more to administrative and elbow protection of the King, where I morphed from bodyguard to Marshall. Overseeing the Crownsguard and our efforts in the outskirts. I nod as the King picks up the pieces of my training and turns it to magick. For all my skill in his magick, I’ve no interest in it. The Guard will learn it better from his mouth than mine. “And Gladio?” I ask. 

“Grace is in Insomnia for trade negotiations. Gladiolus is spending time with his mother,” he pauses, considering. “I believe they went to the florist for the day.”

When you start a relationship with someone, you carve a space out for yourself in their life. Clarus and I have been doing this for years now, since King Mors died, and while I know that his wife doesn’t care if Clarus and I love one another, that while they’re fond of each other in their own way, I doubt I will ever feel comfortable housing our relationship under the same roof he keeps his family. Despite the permission from her own mouth.

As if I am part of their lives. As though the space I have carved is big enough for that affordance. I swallow. “My place?” I counter.

Clarus studies me. “I can do that.”

We take my car in silence. Not a tense one, but neither of us are men of many words. I let us in to my apartment. Offer up food, drink, all of which he turns down. “Shower,” he says, “I’ll make you dinner.” Always so damn domestic when I give him opportunity.

 

But I do as he says. I’m in no mood to argue. Perhaps he’s right about a shower being what I need. I run the shower nearly boiling, so my skin is soft and red, and I’m feeling charitable enough—guilty enough?—that I prep myself. Stretch myself open with one finger, then two. My dick hardly stirs. I’m not much one for making love this way. Never have been. Even after all these years, it still feels strange. Not bad, but strange. Too full, too much effort, too messy, without the same—intimacy?—of giving a blow job or rubbing against each other.

Fuck, I barely like giving it to Clarus this way, despite his baffling love of the position. I close my eyes as the old insecurities rise, and I push my fingers apart too far, too fast, aching and raw, but I don’t make a sound. I’m not eighteen anymore. I don’t just selfishly take for my own pleasure.

Part of being in a relationship is the give and take. I can’t tell him about Prompto, but I can give him this.

I return to Clarus once I’m pruney and cherry-colored. He’s waiting with soup. Just some of the canned stuff I keep laying around, but it’s hot and he’s smiling. “You’ve been avoiding me.” His tone is cool, but his hand is warm on my shoulder.

Mouth full of food, I respond, “Been busy.”

“You’ve made yourself busy.”

No arguing there. I finish the soup instead, then push back my chair. “Bed,” I command.

We fall into bed. Clothes strewn over the floor. Bare skin against bare skin, he stretches out on top of me. I kiss him and kiss him and kiss him. We’ve spent ages at this in the past, hours upon hours learning the curve of each other’s lips.

His stubble rubs against the smooth cut of my jaw. He’s heavy. Blanketing me in, but the pressure is only a relief. Safe.

We could spend all evening just like this. But I pull his hand down to where to where I’m slick and open for him. Clarus groans against my mouth. He circles his finger around and around but never quite pushes in. I clench my teeth, arching at the contact. Of the two of us, I give position first. “Hurry it up.”

Mistake. He pulls back to look down at me. His expression open and wanting as he pants. I shudder. “Did you do this for me?” he asks, circling again. Teasing, the fucker.

“Well, I sure didn’t do it for the girl next door.”

As ever, he takes my biting humor in stride. One of the myriad reasons I love him. Clarus angles to kiss me again, and I’m not petulant enough to deny us what we both want. Not today. I settle into the kissing. He shifts his still lube-tacky hand up to my hip. “Clarus?” I pull back to ask.

“You’re not fond of it this way,” he admits, and my stomach drops from where it had been warm and fluttery. He smiles at me, eyebrows lifted hopefully. “Let me pamper you?”

I don’t _want_ to be pampered. He knows it. But I’ve already resolved to let him do as he likes tonight, to make up for—

This is what having an older, married lover does to you. He always wants to pamper me. I close my eyes and tilt my head back. “If you must—“

He doesn’t waste time. Doesn’t tease. Clarus shimmies down to kiss up the inside of my thighs. Starting with the left knee and moving up to my groin, then moving on to the right. “Cor,” he murmurs, from his position between my legs. Words hot and wet against my skin. And I know—

I make eye contact. He’s watching. Waiting for me. To give the go ahead. To give permission. And—my chest _aches_. “ Yes.”

But he doesn’t go for my cock. Instead, he licks around my entrance, and I feel myself heat with embarrassment, despite knowing I’m clean. Pleasure zips up my spine like electricity, and I arch for his mouth. Clarus never breaks eye contact. And it’s so much. I feel so open. So close. If my cock was having any trepidations about getting it up before, it works past them now. It stands up red and flushed. His stubble scrapes at my thighs, and I can feel him smile against me even though the lube can’t taste pleasant. “Clarus,” I gasp, grasping the headboard so I don’t touch myself. Don’t want to finish early. I’ve never been able to get it up more than once in a night. “ _Please_.”

Clarus moves back up to kiss me. I can taste myself and the lube, and I hate the taste of lube, despise it, but it’s bearable from his tongue. I thrust my hips against him, leaking against his stomach. His dick presses into my thigh, sticky. “Lube’s in the—“

I don’t even finish before he grabs it from drawer. I’m still expecting him to fuck me, somehow, but instead he slicks our cocks together, calluses catching on our heated skin. Then we’re kissing again as he pulls at our dicks. It’s all hot and heavy and we’re hardly kissing now, more panting into each other’s mouths, but it’s fine, it’s okay, I’m trying to keep my eyes open to watch his face, to see the desperation, the want for _me_ , for this, even though it isn’t his favorite position, and it’s building, the heat in my stomach, toes curling, and I come first. I always come first. Probably on purpose, that stubborn fool, but I can’t, he’s still rubbing us together, and—

Pleasure slams headlong into pain. I don’t mind normal pain but this pain-pleasure is—I pull back, oversensitive. Roll us, so that I’m poised over him. Look at him. His eyes are still dark and open. Admiring. “Can I…?” I gesture at his cock as soon as I catch my breath.

Clarus gasps, “Please.”

My come is splattered over his dick and abs, but I still slide his dick easily into my mouth, taste my own come and the lube, and he watches me do it almost reverently. It’s why I love this. Love the way he looks at me when I slide all the way down. The gentle way he cradles my face, never pushing me down. And to taste myself on him is—even better. I can almost forget the lube.

I barely have to move. Once I slide down far enough his curly black hairs tickle my nose, he comes. I wait him out then come back up for air I don’t need, heaving, until he draws me into another kiss. And another and another. We’re sticky and sweaty, pressed hot together. Should clean up. But instead, we keep kissing like the overactive youths we aren’t anymore. Holding each other. Exhaustion pulls at me. My eyes can’t open all the way. Mouth uncoordinated against his. “Cor. Rest well,” he murmurs, and the next kiss is placed softly on my forehead.

 

I drift off.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some body horror and references to depression/PTSD this chapter.

Sunlight invades my bedroom when I wake. My face pillowed in Clarus’s chest. His breathing isn’t slow enough. How long has he been awake? How long have I been asleep? Shouldn’t my alarm have gone off?

It takes all my energy to lift my head. Clarus is scrolling through his phone. “Good morning,” he says, setting it aside.

“Did you turn off my alarm?” my voice scratchy, like my throat has been stuffed with cotton balls. Worse, I can still taste last night’s activities. I pull a face that makes Clarus chuckle.

“I did,” he offers. “Go get cleaned up. Then we’ll talk.”

I do, even though I want to talk about as much as I want to be shot through the chest again. I’m no mind-reader, but I’d wager that he’s making me take the day off. Like that will do any good. But I’ll play along to make him happy. What’s a day?

Clarus smiles when I come back in, but it’s a stiff thing. That defensive smile he gets when he knows I’m about to pick a fight with him. “Regis and I spoke early this morning. You’ve been pushing yourself too hard. As such, until you’re fully rested, you’re not permitted in the Citadel without direct authorization from him or myself.”

I stop in the doorway. Barred from the Citadel. Until further notice. He doesn’t falter, even though my expression must be something fierce. “I have things to do. I can’t just—“

“Orders are orders, Cor.”

“And how long will it take for me to be ‘fully-rested?’”

Clarus rises and clothes himself in his spares from the bottom drawer of my dresser. It’s so fucking domestic and normal, and I cross my arms over my chest. Don’t even care that I’m still naked. “As long as it takes, Cor,” he says finally, damningly.

“So until you’re done _pampering_ me.”

The words tear out of me viciously before I can stop them, and I want to take them back as soon as I loose them. I rub my hands over my face again and again, trying to banish the venom flooding out what had been a good mood. My temper always lands me in trouble.

Irritated, Clarus sighs. “If you want to put it that way, fine. But it’s only because you insist on acting as though anytime someone does anything moderately decent for you is some kind of specially-tailored punishment.” Whatever expression my face morphs into, it makes Clarus stop halfway through buttoning his shirt. “Cor—“ His eyes wide as though he’s surprised himself with the barb.

He doesn’t normally sink to my level. But he can be pushed there. “No.” It comes out steady as my hands usually are. “No. I understand. But banning me from the thing keeping me from going crazy isn’t—“

He’s crossed the room in an instant, and my words trickle to a halt. His hands hover over my shoulders as he searches my face for permission to touch. I don’t give it to him, so he brings his arms back to his sides. Concern making his expression almost fragile. “Cor. I know I’ve suggested it before, but you should speak to someone. We have a whole team in the Citadel dedicated to—“

“I can’t. I tried, you know I did. But I won’t again.”

All it did was frustrate me. The calm voice. The probing questions. The fucking pity. The only person I can stand to be around me when I’m—

When I’m— _like that_ —

Is standing in front of me now. Clarus sighs. “Then take the time off. Rest. And if you need me, you need only call, love.”

They’re not empty words, because he means them, but they may as well be. I won’t call. I never do. But I nod instead, exhausted suddenly. I’ve lost all taste for arguing with him. Have ever since that fight when he’d first approached me about his open marriage with Grace. When he came to me after King Mors died, ring blazing on his finger. Seeking me, as he claimed he always dreamed. Something out of my fantasies, tainted by his marriage.

I’d been pickier then. Holding onto old delusions about romance, and commoners and nobles. I hadn’t learned, then, to take what I was offered. I’m smarter now, with fewer scruples.

“You’ll protect the King?”

“Of course.” 

And he’ll be spending time with his wife and child. Family time is precious for the Amicitias. Grace is so rarely in Insomnia.  “Good. How are you going to decide that I’m rested?”

“One of us will check back in with you. As often as we can.” His mouth pinches in the corners.

We’re men of action, not words. I know he wants to touch me. To reassure me. But I don’t give him permission. I swallow. “You should get back to your duties then. I’ll be here,” I say, too tired for bitterness to seep into my tone.

I want my anger back. But all I feel is the exhaustion they’re accusing me of.

Clarus doesn’t kiss me goodbye like he typically does. As soon as he goes, I strip my bed of last night’s sheets, and then, without bothering to get dressed, I fall back into the bare bed and let sleep take me.

 

_I pick my way down the rickety bridge. The_ _Tempering Grounds_ _weren’t_ _built for safety,_ _obviously_ _. That chill voice in my head again,_ mere strength won’t see you through, boy. _I grit my teeth. I haven’t come all this way_ _to_ _turn back like the youth Regis and Clarus think me._ _I reach solid ground, and that’s when they rise. The fastest of them is still wearing her bloodstained Crownsguard blacks. One of_ _those_ _who came_ _here_ _before me._ _Sofia_ _. We trained together._

_Half her jaw hangs off. I try to_ _jerk_ _back, but she’s already grabbed my_ _face_ _in her_ _splintered_ _, cold fingers. “Cor,” she whispers, jaw flapping, sp_ _l_ _attering me_ _with fluid_ _, “Turn back, child. This place isn’t for you. Your strength will not avail you._ _Your heart will not save you._ _”_ _Her eyes glow with unholy light, fixed upon me._

_She_ _almost sounds_ _concerned._ _But it’s another test in this_ _mad_ _, mindfuck cavern. I_ _stagger_ _back._

_She lurches forward, spitting angry, hands outstretched like claws—she taught me how to fall. Showed me how to execute a proper throw on an opponent much larger than_ _myself_ _, and now—_

_I slice her cleanly in two—and she—_

I slam awake. Sweat pours down my face. Into my eyes. Can’t catch my breath, the world fuzzy with black spots, my ears clogged with static. Like I’ve been fighting for a long time and the adrenaline’s just drained away.

The sun hasn’t set yet. My clock tells me it’s only been an hour and a half since Clarus left. I press my palms to my eyes. I’m here. My house. Nothing here that can hurt me.

Shit, there’s nothing in the entire world left that can damage me for long. It’s just my idiot brain that hasn’t caught up yet.

Normally, I’d pound some tea then head back to the Citadel.Get some training in. Do administrative work. Catch up with Intelligence. Barred from the Citadel as I am, my normal coping strategies are out of reach. So it’s just me and the empty house.

(It doesn’t have to be empty. I could call Clarus and he’d drop everything. I could call the Orphanage and bring home a baby. But I’m not fool enough to do either.)

Years ago, I bought a punching bag for my gym/study. I’m not fond of it. I prefer the taste of reality to my training. But I spend the next—Astrals know how long—wailing on it. My knuckles bruise. Eventually the skin abrades. One good hit away from tearing open. Stings.

I’ll heal. Fast. I heal fast enough now that it’s more hassle to hide the healing from others than it is to feel the pain itself.

I keep at it. The bag swings with the force of my hits. My knuckles rip open. Blood drips down, and the hardwood is more at risk than my flesh. Usually is. Things can be damaged. I can’t. I stop before I make a bigger mess.

When I wrap my hands, it’s to prevent stains. I’ll unwrap them in half an hour and they’ll be fine. I mop up the spilled blood.

It’s only the afternoon. Early afternoon. My stomach swoops out. I haven’t burned enough time. I settle in the rolling, padded stool at my study desk.

 

[Cor] i needed to check up on Lucia today she had important information and she’s just gotten back from her mission

[Clarus] Her reports have been filed. The King was at the meeting.

[Cor] i have a stack of paperwork at the office i need to read

[Clarus] It’ll keep.

[Cor] its only reading i could do it from home

 

It feels pathetic. Begging for work. But I stare at phone like an overeager boy waiting for his prom date to text him back.

 

[Clarus] That’s working. Cor, take a break. Watch TV or read a book or garden. Relax.

[Cor] ive been sleeping all day feeling really rested the most rested ive ever felt

[Clarus] Good. Gladio and I are coming later with soup. We’ll see you then.

 

I shut my phone off after that. Frustrated, I prowl around the already-neat apartment and don’t so much clean as I do roughly shove everything into it’s rightful place. I break two dishes. Slice through one of my knuckles and bleed all over my shirt.

The next hour is spent trying to get the blood out. You’d think it would be easier, given my profession. But after all these years, I’m still shit at it.

It joins the reject blood-shirt pile.

I should just toss the whole pile, but they’re fine for wearing around the house as long as Clarus isn’t coming over. And buying new shirts isn’t an efficient use of my time.

I try a book next. Doesn’t matter which one. Read the same line ten times before I toss it across the room. Can’t focus. Irritated.

(Like watching myself from the outside, I know I don’t have a real reason to be angry. I’m not even upset with Clarus and Regis. But it’s like something buzzing and harsh has settled under my skin, and the longer I sit idle, the stronger the buzzing becomes. It used to be I could enjoy my free time. I can’t remember when that changed.)

 

I turn to my phone to vent, like a teenager.

 

[Cor] that book regis leant me is trash this writer has obviously never been in a fight before he said the fight lasted for thirty minutes it was pages of bullshit

[Clarus] Do you really want anyone to know what fighting is like?

[Cor] its not about living the story you’re telling but do your damn research its like if regis sent us out without any intel

[Clarus] One of these things has higher stakes.

[Cor] why are you even texting me shouldnt you be working

[Clarus] I’m currently ornamenting the door while his Majesty pretends to listen at his meeting.

[Cor] glad to know our tax dollars are being well spent

 

I keep at the book for lack of anything useful to do. The apartment is clean. Sleep will only— _can still smell her pungent breath, “strength alone will not avail you”_ —only make it worse.

The plot is simple enough. Some magical prophesy that says the boy is chosen by the gods for some great destiny. Blah blah blah. Exactly the kind of thing Regis reads for morbid reasons. A man crafted by destiny. Why he wouldn’t turn to reading to escape, instead of verifying his fate—hell if I know. I thought people read to get away. But I’m no expert. I gave up recreational reading years ago.

The doorbell rings sometime after the boy starts making unlikely friends in the local tavern. Key in the lock, and then Clarus enters with Gladio.

Big for a five year old, he’s still scrawny as hell. Short. Thin. Like I could kick him across the room on accident. He peers up at me with those bright curious eyes.

I’m certain Clarus has explained that I’m his lover/boyfriend/whatever to Gladio, but the boy always regards me with wide-eyed curiosity. “Hello, Cor. Mom made you soup because you’re sick.” He frowns. “Not cold sick. But head sick?” He looks up at his dad for verification.

Clarus winces. Irritation runs through me like a current, but I force my mouth to keep its plastered smile. Kid doesn’t know any better. Anyway, Grace might be a diplomat, but she’s not known for giving anything other than her honest opinion. Clarus must tell her about me. “Thank you,” I say, but feel anything but. I can’t help but hate the image of them tucked together in their marriage bed gossiping about Clarus’s lover. 

It’s unkind, but I’m unkind.

Pleased with himself, Gladio hands me the still-warm tupperware. I take it. Why the hell did Clarus bring Gladio? Especially when Gladio could spend more time with his long-distance mother?

Clarus nods permission at Gladio. The kid settles himself on my couch with a picture book his dad brought. Kid loves reading. Clarus says he gets it from his mother. I don’t know if he can actually read, but he puts on a convincing show of it.

(Easy. Me and Clarus, and a kid here. It’s so fucking easy. Like he isn’t married. Like I’m not Immortal. Like there isn’t a kid in the city who could fit here snugly. A brother for Gladio? No. That isn’t my life. It’s not _our_ life. For all that we share feelings, we can’t share a life.)

I blink. Realize with a jolt—Clarus asked me a question. “Sorry. Repeat that?”

“I asked how your day off was,” Clarus says, forcing a reassuring smile. It’s isn’t malicious, but it still makes my skin feel too-tight, like I have to tear my way out of it with my teeth.

“Peachy,” I snap. “Riveting day of contemplating my navel and cleaning an already clean apartment. Now are you going to sign me off?”

He enters my personal space. I can feel his heat. Itch with it, hating my indestructible skin and wanting to climb out of it even more at his scrutiny. A thumb, over the pudgy skin beneath my eyes. I don’t even need sleep, but my body keeps screaming that I do. I lean into his touch, then pull back as soon as I realize I have. His lips graze my temple. “Did you sleep at all?”

“This morning. And last night.”

Clarus frowns at me. Then shakes his head. “You should stay out another day. Cor. You’re run down. The last thing you need now is the Citadel.”

If I thought arguing would get me anywhere, I’d shout myself blue. But the only people more stubborn than Clarus are Regis and Cid. My fingers clench around the tupperware hard enough my hands ache. “This is making it worse. You can’t fix me by forcing me to sit around with my thumbs up my ass.”

“If we could trust you to rest without us twisting your arm—“

“If it’s a trust issue, then—“

I stop at the small footsteps. Gladio crosses to his father. He wraps his small arms around Clarus’s legs. “Are you fighting again?”

“No,” I say, before Clarus can answer. “But how’s your visit with your mom?”

“Good! She taught me my times tables!” He beams up at me, so easily, and all I can think of is that thoughtful smile of Prompto’s. I clutch the soup tighter. All the anger trickles out of me. But I’m heavy, like Titan has shifted from holding up the Meteor to pressing me down into the floor.

I try a smile. “Do you know what multiplication is?”

“Nope!” Gladio answers cheerfully. “But I can say my times tables.”

And he does. One and one is one, one and two is two. All the way through his tens. Clarus beams with pride. “Very good,” I encourage, but my tongue feels heavy as the rest of me.

I don’t know what else to say. I’m not—this isn’t supposed to be—I’m the other man. I’d been the other man since we started this, because he’s a Duke and obviously he’d had to marry someone important, and I’m not part of that world, beyond the reach of my blade. Some of the Guard have chips on their shoulders—about being nobility or being common, but it’s just fact for me.

Know where you stand, but don’t fixate.

I usually can. But the political and the personal had meshed, and now I’m here with the child he was contractually obligated to have. The one his wife had to give him, even if she wanted motherhood as much as I wanted immortality. I’m here with the man I’ve loved since I was a child. And for all the he loves me, we can never belong to each other the way I wish we could. _I know this_. But still I’m heavy with it. Weighted down like my body can’t possibly bear to move.

“Thank you for the soup,” I say, aching. “Tell your mother that she’s as wonderful as she is beautiful.”

Gladio giggles. Promises he will. He looks up at Clarus. “Can we go home? She’s gonna read me a story! The one about the eagle and the mouse!”

“Very well. Tell Cor goodnight and we’ll go.” His expression, fixed on me, is unreadable.

I bid the two goodnight. They leave without fanfare, but Clarus keeps his gaze fixed on me until they’re out the door.

The soup is daggerquil and rice. My favorite.

I told her once, drunk at their wedding. She’d drunk with me until her face was red and she’d laughed. I hadn’t thought her beautiful until then. I’d told her about my favorite foods at her behest. Then she’d asked me all sorts of things about myself. Mostly flattering. And then, after warming me up, Grace had gone in for the kill—wanting to know what her husband was like. If he was gentle. If I thought he would treat her well.

It’d felt good, to put her fears aside. I don’t know if she believed me, but I like to think I helped somehow. They deserved it.

I don’t bother with a spoon. Drink it straight from the tupperware and can’t bring myself to care as some of it drips down my chin. Think about heading to the Orphanage. Imagine Gladio. Learning his time tables. Wanting to read stories. So open with his smiles.

Prompto’s soft hair. The smiles he’s working so hard for. Those clear blue eyes.

No. The more I go back, the more a routine will be built. He doesn’t need that confusion. I can’t be the man Clarus is. I can’t be a father. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are at the end~! Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy :)

The next day is worse. Much worse. Don’t sleep. Can’t sleep. Can’t bear to see—

Work out. Break knuckles on the punching bag.

Make them set wrong. Curious. Never done it before. Usually careful to make sure they set right. Injuries on the field are different. Need immediate care and secrecy. Home like this, they need neither. I have all the time to heal and unheal as Clarus and Regis decide is good for me.

My knuckles heal crooked. I bend them. Unbend them. They ache. Look wrong. Something primal in me hates this. The way they bend at the wrong angles.

Couldn’t manage my sword. Couldn’t protect anyone.Rebreak them. Hurts. Fiery hot pain. They set right this time. Bend them. Unbend them.

The heat curls under my skin again.

Pull out my phone to text with still aching fingers. The ache is relief that won’t last.

 

[Cor] i need to oversee training

[Clarus] It’s being taken care of.

[Cor] then what the fuck do you pay me for

[Clarus] Are you all right?

[Cor] bored

 

I turn off the phone again. Don’t throw it dramatically. Clean the apartment again. Throw things off my bookcase so I can put them back. Alphabetize them. Don’t know how or why I have so many books.

Stretch out on the couch. Time passes. Not sure how much. The sun isn’t so bright. Turn on my phone.

 

[Clarus] I’m worried.

[Clarus] Of course you’ve turned off your phone.

[Clarus] Cor, will you please let me know you’re ok?

[Clarus] I have to attend a function with Grace tonight. Regis is bringing Noctis.

[Clarus] He’s had a hard day. Be gentle.

[Cor] sir yes sir

[Clarus] Are you all right?

[Cor] ive rested all day

 

Noctis is about the same age as Prompto. By my best guess.

I don’t want to see him. Too much. Too fresh. Dangling what I want before me.

But Regis takes the kid everywhere he can, since his wife died last year. Even takes him to Council meetings when he can get away with it. Hell. I stare up at the ceiling.

Have to pull myself together. Regis needs me.

I try reading again. Don’t remember anything about the book, but I progress. When the bell tolls, I’m sixty pages further and don’t remember a word. I answer the door. Regis has Noctis on his hip. Wincing as he limps into my apartment. He should get a cane. I know he won’t.

He looks more tired than I feel. I’d trade with him in an instant. The magick can’t take me as it’s taking him—

Like it took his father— _King Mors had withered awa_ _y till he looked l_ _ike a skeleton. His_ _ghastly_ _smile stretched over empty cheeks, wisps of white hair, wrinkles, horrifying, but I’d put my hand over his, “Thank you”—_ Regis will be my second king to wither to dust.

He offers Noctis to me. (My third king, to wither to dust.) Relief shines in Regis’s face when I take his son. Ease his burden a little. I swallow. It almost pours out of me then.  _I found a child old as your son. Experimented on by the Empire. I’ve been helping him. Astrals, Regis, please let me help him_. But it doesn’t. I can’t force Regis to choose between the one versus the many. Not when he already has so much on his stooping shoulders. No. This is my shame.

Noctis doesn’t make a sound. Lays his head on my head as I rock him like I rocked Prompto. Almost immediately, the kid’s asleep. I can only hope he won’t wake the same wayPrompto did.

“Thank you,” Regis smiles at me, losing about five years. “I’m afraid homemade soup was impossible tonight. I brought Galahdian take out. I hope it’s agreeable.”

It is, but it reminds me of the two months I spent hidden there, fed by the good grace of a people who desired only freedom. “Thanks.”

I think I mean it. Unlike Clarus and Gladio, Regis and Noctis stay to eat with me. Regis opens and closes his mouth absently as he feeds Noctis. Open when he wants Noctis to take a bite. Closed when he wants Noctis to swallow. I wonder if Noctis is old enough to eat by himself. When he’ll be able to manage solids instead of the strange orange slurry Regis is feeding him. Carrots?

Regis eats between Noctis’s bites. My plate is empty. I can’t recall eating, too engrossed in Regis feeding his son. I fill my plate and empty it again without tasting the food. “You’re not looking well,” the pot says to the kettle. “You should stay home another day.”

“I’m not sure what you’re hoping this will fix. But if it’s your wish, Majesty.”

Regis sighs as he burps the child. “It is not my  _wish_ , but it is the only way I can think to help you. I know you have more experience in this War than most. More than you should. There’s a lull now. Better you take the time now, than later when…“

He trails off, but I don’t need him to complete the thought. We all know this still-War will move in double, triple time when the dam breaks. All we can do is be ready. “Your son is tired, Majesty.”

Noctis is always tired. I’ve never seen a sleepier-eyed babe. Nothing like—

I force a smile at them. “Thank you,” I say again.

Regis, with his impeccable breeding, takes the hint. “We shan’t impose any longer. I’ll see you soon. Thank you for taking this with more grace than Clarus thought you would.”

My smile is wry. “Naturally.”

 

Their car has barely left my driveway when I find my own keys. I feel like Cecelia, who came back from a skirmish near Galahd and turned to opioids. No matter how many times she swore to us, swore to herself that she wouldn’t anymore, she always did. We’d find her in her apartment with that tell-tale sheen in her eyes. Told me once, when she was almost sobered up, “I know I shouldn’t. I always know I shouldn’t, but—hell, it’s still better than the alternative.” Then, looking at me, like a secret, “I lost her. Sofia. How is it you came back, Immortal, able to live with yourself? I wasn’t even there, and I sure as hell can’t.”

I feel like she described. Know I shouldn’t, but it’s better than the alternative.

It’s dark when I reach the Orphanage. Pick the lock easily as I always do. Lance isn’t there. A woman tonight. Stout, olive-skinned, hair shaved at the sides with a bun high on her head. She looks at me fiercely then relaxes. “You must be our nightly visitor,” she says, without inflection. “The one Lance says doesn’t want a kid.”

“That’s right. Am I permitted to visit Prompto?”

She shrugs. “You’re already paying my salary for the next month. Don’t see why not.”

I don’t comment. Take the stairs and when I enter the toddler’s room, Prompto is standing. Standing! Using the crib to steady himself. But his gaze is fixed on the door like he’s waiting for something. Someone? And when he sees me, his rounder face breaks out into a wide smile. He makes grabby hands at me.

(Me. He was waiting for  _me_.)

My hands are shaking when I pick him up. He curls his fists into my shirt, trembling, and I think he’s crying, but I don’t feel any tears. I take him out of the room and back downstairs. I stand in the living room with him. The woman glances our way, brows drawn up to her forehead. She says nothing.

Prompto sighs. He tilts back to smile at me again. He’s getting better at it. All his teeth show. None of that concentration of before. Like all the sunlight in the world is just pouring out of him, and he’s chosen to gift it to me.

My chest seizes like I’ve been shot straight through. And  _I’m_  the one crying, not him. Big ugly silent tears pour down my face. “You’re a good boy,” I choke.

And he just—he just puts his head on my shoulder and holds on tighter. Like he’s comforting me. Even though it should be the other way around. Shit, shit, I’m shit at this, but my chest aches for him. He’s learning. So different from the boy who’d been handed to me outside of some shadowy lab. The toddler who had stared at me for hours before he’d passed out limp in my arms.

I’d turned my extra jacket and shirt into a sling to carry him back to Insomnia, moving as fast as I could. The first night, we’d found a haven, and I’d sat with him next to the fire. Spent hours teaching him how to drink water—trying to ignore the implications of the IV marks on his tiny arms and hands.

It’d taken us weeks to get back to Insomnia. He’d never cried. Just accepted whatever I did. Flinched from the monsters, but didn’t cry. Flinched from my touch as often as he leaned into it. Honestly, it had been like carrying a particularly uncanny doll more than a real child. But I guess he grew on me.

Now that he can smile—now that I know he’s healing—that he can smile and see the sun—

I can’t help but think…

It was worth it. Come what may, but he’s worth whatever comes in the future. Even if I can’t raise him myself. Even if I have to let go.

He’s growing too attached. I know enough about children to know that my coming and going can’t be good for him. Prompto has to be adopted. He has to bond with the family that will raise him. And the longer I draw this out, the more confused and hurt he’ll be. He waits for me at nights instead of sleeping.

I’ve let this drag on too long. Sentimental fool that I am.

Best to cut it off all at once. It’ll hurt at first, but not a lingering pain.

But it’s for tomorrow. Tonight—tonight I hold him tighter. After he’s fallen asleep in my arms, I settle on the couch and let him sleep on me. The woman remains silent. She grants me my goodbye.

 

Prompto wakes as the sun rises. He gurgles at me, smiling again. I kiss his forehead. “Be good,” I say, and my throat feels raw, scraped over with sandpaper. “Be kind. Be smart. Do your best. And—keep at it. Endure.”

I press my lips firmer to his fluffy hair for a long time. Long enough he starts squirming.

And then I let him go.

When I close the door, I hear his wail, but I don’t go back.

 

The day passes. I tell myself to stop feeling sorry for myself, but I can’t shake the loss that emanates from chest and spreads all through my body like a sickness. I drowse on the couch, and Gilgamesh peers down at me.

 _I have no gift for your bravery, Lion Heart. You are no Shield, to the Chosen King o_ _r_ _otherwise. You are a Sword. What_ _G_ _ift do you think I have for one such as you?_ _Yet_ _. You have passed my test and taken my arm. Th_ _us_ _you shall share my_ _F_ _ate, Cor Leonis. From this day forth, you are as Immortal as I, so that forevermore you can serve as Sword. That is the only gift I have for_ _you_.

Can’t even be sure if it’s dream, memory, or reality. Can feel his rank breath against my face. Feel the heat of him. Perhaps it doesn’t matter. Fool that I was, I had demanded and he had given. Now, I am doomed as he—to watch the world change and death take, while I remain motionless in time.

I never wake. He simply fades away.

 

That evening? Is it evening? Clarus appears. His brows furrow when he sees me. “Where is Gladio?” I ask without rising. I cannot bring myself to lift a single finger. Titan presses me further into the couch cushions.

“With his mother. Nothing to worry about.” Clarus pauses, watching me from the doorway.

His face is unreadable. Almost stern, but not exactly. It’s more energy than I can expend to analyze it. I shut my eyes and don’t open them again until I feel his fingers trace over the lines on my forehead. “Will you not tell me what’s troubling you? Or accept any help whatsoever?”

“…If you came to lecture…” I don’t want to hear it.

To be honest, I’m not positive I want to go back to work. I want it for the something to do that isn’t waste, but with my emotions changing with every passing second, with the exhaustion that’s set into me like the icy touch of the Glacian—laying here and doing nothing almost sounds appealing.

I barely recognize myself. I’ve never been one for idleness. Yet here I am.

I submit myself to his petting, letting my eyes shut again. “Will you allow me to be here with you, even if you will not confide in me?”

Later, I can’t recall if I said yes, but when I come back to myself from drifting—drifting endlessly, wandering, my eventual, eternal fate—Clarus is curled around me on the couch. His breathing even. Asleep. I run my fingers over and over his nape.

 

 _We’d sprung an ambush near_ _Cavaugh_   _. Snipers and_ _magitek armor_   _. While we focused on the_ _armor and its precision missiles_   _, the snipers picked us off one by one, until I was standing amongst the bodies before I could_ _hope to blink_   _. And then_   _I was shot_ _straight through my chest. I’d fallen amongst the others—_

_And surprised even myself by standing, still-bleeding, a hole in my shirt I’d have to explain later._

 

I wake from a deep sleep as I feel Clarus’s weight leave me chest. He rolls his stiff shoulder, grimacing, but his visage softens when he sees I’m awake. His kiss on my lips is chaste, but I warm. The best I’ve felt in days. Weeks? “Breakfast?” he rasps, and I’ve always been astounded by his ability to be human in the morning.

Even if the War trained vigilance into me, mornings haven’t gotten any easier. “I have Cup Noodles,” I respond.

Maybe he laughs, but I settle more comfortably onto the couch instead of rising with him. My back complains at the hours and hours I’ve spent here, but what’s it going to do, kill me?

Finally, I drag myself up when the kettle shrieks. Clarus has tea and noodles brewing when I come in. If I could, I’d marry this man. The thought normally turns my stomach, but I’m too tired for it to do more than ache. I thank him, and he grunts, and then we’re silent as we refuel.

We shower together after that, more for the heat and intimacy than any need to be clean. I run my hands over his feathers, over a thick, old scar on the curve of his beak. I remember when he got it: saved Regis from being run through when the MTs had used some strange contraptions to trap his hands and lock down his magick and his ability to warp. It’d been the first time we’d see those nasty inventions.

(Begging the question, the one that troubled Regis to this day, that none of us dared ask: how did the Imperials know the Crown’s magick so intimately?)

I press my mouth to the feathered curve of his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I haven’t been easy to take, of late,” I say, as though I am ever easy to take.

Clarus offers himself to my lips. “I’m just worried,” he sighs, tired. “Not just about you, but also about you. I wish you’d let me into your head more.”

I hate being inside my own head. Why in the hell would he want to be stuck in here with me? I plant my hands on his hips and don’t let go. The water beats down on our backs, soothing. We’re too old by far to sleep on the couch anymore. (25, I’m only 25, not even a drop in my bottomless bucket, but I feel—ancient, somehow.) “It’s isn’t purposeful. I’m not the sharing and caring type.”

“Could you try?”

Gentle Clarus. He’s wasted on War. I clutch him tighter, teeth sinking hot into his shoulder. We must all play our roles. Sword and Shield. Above us, the aging King. I close my eyes tight enough I see dancing colors behind my lids. 

I realize I’m shaking when Clarus smoothes his hands over and over my unmarked skin.  _Try_. He’s never asked me more than that.  _Try to stay safe. Try to spar me. Try to_ _date_ _. Try to get along with Grace. Just try._  I open my mouth, and barely keep everything about Prompto, my mistake I damningly can’t see as a mistake, from spilling out.

But the fear rises again. I can’t speak of Prompto. Safer to just let go, for everyone involved. “I feel as though I’m having a midlife crisis,” I finally admit. Isn’t that what they call it, when you turn around, and the life you’ve built is nothing like the one you’d dreamed? “There are things I want. Maybe I always wanted them, or maybe I’ve just started, but there are things I want that I can never have. My job is necessary. Vital, even. I’m good at it. But there are other things that I can’t have. My life is the Citadel. Taking that from me has just made the lack clear.”

“This wasn’t a punishment,” Clarus says, but his voice is small. Cowed. I dig my nails into him.

As ever, he never complains. “I know.” It feels like one, but it isn’t.

They have words for soldiers like me. Ones who splinter then fracture all at once. I started ten years ago, and I’m not sure I’ve stopped. I should be better this. But it’s easy to hold it together when I’ve got a goal.

(It was easier before I saw Prompto’s tiny tiny smile.)

“Will you trust in me? What it is you want?” so delicately. As though I’ll break.

I blow out a long breath. Don’t stop him from wrapping me up in my arms. It’s different now, that I’m grown, but just as comforting. I shake my head. “I can’t keep torturing myself,” I say. “Perhaps a stronger man than I… but no. When I say I can’t have it… I mean it. I cannot keep torturing myself.”

I will always be the Immortal. Always be the other man. Always be childless (and I never wanted one, before Prompto, but now I want, and I can’t). And until the War is over, I will only be a Sword. And there will always be a War and I will always be fighting it. My eyes burn.

Clarus pets me. “I won’t press. But if you ever wish to speak on it…” He doesn’t finish, but he doesn’t have to.

 

We spend the rest of the hot water on kisses.

 

We’re buttoning our shirts when he offers, “I’ll sign off on you. I hope you’ll continue to rest. But this has made it worse for you. I’m sorry, Cor. We didn’t mean to cause harm. We simply wanted you to heal. Forgive us?”

“I’ll need to hear His Majesty’s apology from his own lips,” I tease, “But yes. Promise you’ll trust me, next time, when I tell you what will and won’t help me?” That I should speak of trust, when I tell so many lies.

“I’ll try. But if you force our hands, we’ll try to protect you. We’re not going to let you burn yourself out.”

I relax. His phone trills. He glances down, then nods. “Grace. I need to take Gladio to school. You’re free to go to the Citadel. I’ll call them on the way to pick him up.”

I nod. It may not be our ideal life, but here we are. He pecks my cheek farewell, and I watch him go.

 

The Citadel is a relief. The Guard nod me in, acting as though I never left. Then, they must be used to it by now. I come and go as ever. My paperwork is neatly organized. Only awaiting my seal. There are no notices for family. Thank the Astrals.

I spend most the day reading through reports. Intelligence still has no hint as to why the borders were fortified. Only a little guilt. Every time it threatens to swallow me, I imagine Prompto’s face.

I sign everything I need sign. Watch training for awhile. As ever, nothing has come crashing down around me. I half-expect Regis to come, but he doesn’t. Probably caught up in meetings or looking after Noctis. I go to the apartment instead of my quarters here. Don’t go to the Orphanage.

The week passes. Paperwork, training, sleep. Regis visits me on my third day back, and apologizes with a variety of snacks to hide in my desk. He rests his hand on my cheek. “Forgive me. I’m so used to being expected to know what’s best for everyone…” he pauses, looking out the window. “Sometimes I start to think I do know what’s best for everyone.”

“Dangerous, but thank you.”

He doesn’t stay long. A long meeting with the Altissian diplomats, including Grace, awaits him. I slip out of the Citadel long before the meeting ends. As much as I should thank her for the soup, it’s never been easy, my relationship with her. She seems to understand, even if she doesn’t particularly go out of her way to make me comfortable. But that’s just her way. She never coddles the way her husband does. I avoid her the entire time she’s here. As she prepares to leave, I see less of Clarus.

I fall back into the old rhythms. It isn’t bad. Things aren’t exactly as I’d like, but they are as they are. What the future holds will come.

With that equilibrium, I calm. The nightmares still come. The exhaustion still tugs. But I keep my promise and I don’t return to Prompto. And then, a month later, Lance calls. “Hello? Is this—“

“Is it Prompto? What happened?” I cut him off.

A pause. “He’s fine. Good news, actually. Little dude was adopted yesterday. His new family just finished up the paperwork and aced the background checks. He’s off to start his life.”

My throat closes up, like I’m being choked. “I see. And his new family is…?”

“For confidentiality, I can’t tell you that,” immediate response. “But they seem like good folk. You don’t need to worry. We’re almost sad to see him go. Prompto is a delight. They’ll just love him. He’ll be fine.”

“Thank you.” I disconnect.

This is good. This is good. Adopted. Normal life. Good people. It’s a good thing. It’s a  _good_  thing. I breathe. My dinner sits steaming on the table, and I cover it mechanically with cling wrap and shove it in the fridge.

Crawl onto the couch and stare at the ceiling. I do this so often. Becoming a bad habit.

This is a good thing, but I want to know who took him. The people who are doing what I can’t.

I could find out. Could use my connections in the Citadel to find his parents. But part of letting go is actually letting go.

I’ve been holding on too long.

(This is going to become my life. I must get good at it now, letting go of people, or I’ll go mad.)

The loss claws at my stomach, and I throw my arms over my eyes. The tears leak anyway. He wasn’t mine to lose, but Astrals, I wish he had been.

All the people I lose and will lose are never mine to begin with.

Still, the life he gets with them—it will be far better than anything I could have offered. He will forget the strange man who took him from Gralea, who taught him to smile. But I will always have his smile and the way he held my shirt to remember.

Even if I have to let go, I can keep my memories. They will be the only things I’m ever allowed to keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Years later, Prompto’s file appears on his desk for Crownsguard training, and Cor blinks again and again to clear his vision. That bright smile beams back at him, and Cor jolts to see himself in it. 
> 
> But there it is: a paternal pride he hasn’t earned. "


End file.
